Consequences
by AbbieKym
Summary: What if Moriarty wanted to break Sherlock another way? An alternative Fall. Very dramatic, very angsty, leading to eventual romance for Johnlock lovers! Chapter one is very short and dramatic, really just to set the scene. Please read and review (particularly about plot- I never can seem to control it! ;)) Anyone want to make me a gif to use as an image-credited?
1. Chapter 1

Summary: What if Moriarty wanted to break Sherlock another way? An alternative Fall.

Sherlock had been missing 3 months. Three months and all they had was the occasional clue from **_him _**Moriarty**_. _**

Lestrade was at his wits end trying to keep the press at bay, controlling Anderson and Donovan from making their sick jokes, but really, he had nothing and he felt useless. All of Sherlock's insults came rushing back like pouring salt in a wound- he really was useless. If Sherlock had been here the case would have been solved in a week at the most. But of course that was the problem- he wasn't here.

John wasn't coping, despite what he told Sarah, Mrs Hudson, and Claire the new psychiatrist; he had thrown his whole life into finding Sherlock. He had walked the streets of London talking to his homeless network, asking people about Sherlock, looking for any scrap of information, watched and re-watched hours of CCTV footage, and all for nothing.

Moriarty was teasing him, he knew that. But he needed to find Sherlock. Needed Moriarty to make a mistake. Which just wouldn't happen from the worlds only consulting criminal would it now?

John was slumped over his cup of tea when he heard a knock at the door. He had barely had time to acknowledge it before Lestrade came striding in.

"John- we've found where they were- where they **_might _**still be- do you wa?"

He was already grabbing his coat and was half way towards the door before he answered.

"If we wait what state do you think we'll find him in?"

Lestrade paled and said quietly "John... I'm not sure what kind of state we'll find him in, even His apparent proof of life isn't solid evidence of that. You know the hair could have been taken shortly after death..."

"I know Greg, believe me, I know... I just need to believe that he's still alive until it's proved that Sherlock isn't."

And with that, the now close friends sprinted off into the waiting patrol car.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing at the front door of the once-glorious-now-dilapidated Victorian house John felt bile rise up in his throat, never having felt more nervous. He mentally shook himself fingering the handle of the browning which had served him so well all these years and remembered invading Afghanistan, finding the strength to follow his gut instinct.

"3, 2...1 GO GO GO" And the yarders and burst through the doors to the semi detached searching.

His heart sank. It was empty. They had already moved.

Then he saw it.

The shed that no one had checked. It was entirely blacked out. Gesturing silently to Lestrade, John began to creep forwards towards the door, pulled it open and dropped to his hands and knees.

Here John paused; he'd come this far, he couldn't risk being seen now. Sherlock's life isn't worth the risk he thinks.

He starts crawling through the overgrown grass, ignoring the stinging nettles and the piles of dog dirt everywhere his one goal to get to the shed. He hears a noise behind him and starts towards his Browning but its only faithful Lestrade coming to help him. They're a few metres away now. One more step...

They stood up and opened the door a crack.

John lifted his chin and looked inside. His eyes adjusted to the absolute darkness. And took in the scene.

The shed was small, only about 3m wide by 5m long just the type used by gardener's tools in and shelter delicate plants in through winter, only Moriarty, or perhaps more accurately Moran or another of his henchmen, had mutilated it. The windows had been blacked out and every crevice which might have let light in had been filled in. The shelves which once must have held pliers and watering cans now held torture instruments- spikes, whips, corkscrews, blind folds, and electronic circuitry.

The floor of the small space was originally just mud-normal ground until now- it was covered in human faeces as well as rotting food and dead animals

The room was fetid. The stench of human waste, body odour, and blood was unmistakeable. It was so thick that John could barely breathe and could taste the strength of the horror.

John's attention was drawn to the centre of the room.

There, lying at the edge of the shed wall was Sherlock, lying face down away from john. He was lying naked pressed into the filth by Moriarty was also naked. And thrusting into Sherlock aggressively.

John, who had been standing at the door unobserved by either genius despite the light, saw red. He ran in.

He grabbed Moriarty's shoulder and threw him into the wall with the shelves full of torture implements, Lestrade, who had been waiting for John's lead restrained him, while John ran to Sherlock.

Sherlock had curled up into a ball and was shaking violently trying to shield his eyes from the light. When John approached he flinched and shrank even deeper into himself. John's heart broke then. Sherlock was his best friend and despite what Lestrade sometimes said, a good man. He didn't deserve this. No one did really.

"Shh Sherlock, it's me John. I'm here. I'm finally here." John said utterly distraught.

"J-J-JJ-John...?"

"Yes, it's me, I'm here now, I'm so sorry it took us so long to find you" to Lestrade he nodded outside and said vehemently "Take that scum away! Call Mycroft and see what he can do with _it_. Oh and Lestrade, might be an idea to clear the yarders away, leaving a patrol car.

Sherlock had uncurled slightly and was staring around in shock. He was bleeding an awful lot, Moriarty hadn't been gentle.

"Sherlock, I need you to be able to trust me. You're losing a lot of blood and I need to stitch some of your wounds. If you'd rather we could go to hospital?"

Silence greeted this. Sherlock was staring at him with wide eyes.

Realisation swept over John. Just because there was evidence of physical abuse didn't mean that there hadn't also been psychological torture as well.

Sherlock was frightened of him.

An even hotter surge of anger bolted through him and he saw Sherlock flinch again. He really was broken. It hadn't occurred to John that Sherlock could be broken- he was always so strong.

John softened his tone and reached out to take Sherlock's hand "Sherlock. I will not hurt you. I'm a doctor- _your doctor_, despite the rules. I'm here to look after you. I'm so s-sorry I failed you here and now," John's voice broke as it hit him, just how shattered Sherlock really was.


	3. Chapter 3

This time when John took his hand he didn't flinch, somehow realising that John wasn't going to hurt him.

"Sherlock, we need to get you out of here, into the house so we can get you clean and I can stop the bleeding from some of these injuries."

Sherlock just stared at him though the darkness. John squeezed his hand hating how vulnerable the world's only consulting detective looked.

"It's really bright outside. You're going to be photosensitive after all this time in the dark so... Do you trust me enough to put these over your eyes?" John asked holding a black silk sleep mask up. Sherlock looked at it with wide eyes and began trembling again.

"Right. Okay, well, it is bright outside so we're going to have to do something... Maybe sunglasses if you keep your eyes shut? I don't want to hurt you Sherlock"

This time Sherlock gave such a small nod, that if John hadn't been scrutinising him so closely, he would have missed it.

John slid the glasses out of his pocket and handed them to Sherlock. He then reached over the quivering man and slipped his arm under his shoulders to help him sit up. Then, when Sherlock had the glasses on he murmured "I'm going to pick you up now, take you inside and try to stop this bleeding "

He stood up and lifted Sherlock into his arms. He tensed and John made small smoothing noises no daring to move until he relaxed.

John walked back over to the back door feeling that the distance felt much shorter when he new Sherlock was alive. He could feel Sherlock shake and whimper as they came into the light and with a start realised that the man had pressed his face into John's shoulder and scar.

"Oh Sherlock..."

Opening the back door he walked into the bathroom and gently laid Sherlock against the side of the bath, starting to run it and shutting the blinds and the door, leaving the room in a dusky sort of darkness.

While the bath was running John had gently started to strip Sherlock murmuring useless words of comfort just to avoid the silence which was threatening to become deafening.

"I need to see your wounds Sherlock. I can't help you otherwise. If it's too much I want you to tap the floor; you probably can't talk yet"

John ever the sweet, caring, kind considerate man he was, understood that after everything Sherlock had been through, his lack of speech was his way of coping, his only offense against that bastard!

Sherlock for his part just lay there; completely helpless. He hated it. Not because he thought John would hurt him like... him... but because he was used to being in control of himself- his body was only transport after all.

As John stripped his clothes from his thin, battered form he sighed with momentary relief as the befouled, feculent, grungy clothes were remove and tossed into a corner. He trusted John. Especially when he was in doctor mode, he was his doctor. The only one to whom he would consent to being examined by- unless of course he was in imminent danger of death. Now didn't count. He needed John like he needed air.

He could have given John a list of injuries and tests that needed to be done of course, but somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to talk. In the end that had been his last offence. He couldn't fight, no; he had been too hurt to do anything like that. But he would not give in and scream. He just couldn't give the bastard that. And it had driven him insane. Because, really, before then, him claiming he was insane was the same as Sherlock claiming to be a sociopath- simply mechanisms the genius intellect had put in place to protect itself.

John was murmuring again, about how it would be all right, he was safe now, there was no need to worry, John would be there to help through it all, it wasn't his fault, was all useless to him really,

It was his fault. He had accepted the challenge. He had failed, and he wasn't really safe yet because although Moriarty was in Mycroft's custody he was sure, there were other members in the web. However it was comforting to know that John still cared, still wanted him to be safe, and that he maybe even had started to love him. Sherlock was dreading that conversation.

John had stopped talking as he tested the temperature of the bath and deciding it was warm enough, warned Sherlock.

"I'm going to lift you up again now, and put you in the water. It's only shallow, don't worry, and it's only lukewarm, although it'll probably feel scalding. I'm sorry..." He petered out as he heard his voice catch on a sob.

Sherlock felt John's hands on the small of his back and under his knees and flinched instinctively by now. But John didn't stop; instead he just lifted him and placed him in the bath so he could sit up against the side of the tub. He was right, it was scalding. But it felt refreshing, this new kind of pain. Cleansing instead of tarnishing.

John was pouring jugs of water over his abdomen, gently wiping over his body with a soft flannel until he was clean and all that was left were his genitalia, face and hair.

"Do you want me to wash your hair and your face and your privates or do you want to do that yourself?" John asked quietly, not wanting to break the fragile trust Sherlock appeared to have placed in him.

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes and on seeing his friend's expression darken with an emotion so raw it reverberated in Sherlock he nodded once.

"O-okay"

John rinsed the flannel again and gently, ever so gently began to cleanse Sherlock's genitals. His eyes never left the doctor's hands, not quite trusting this not to be another ruse and that he wasn't going to be hurt again. The army doctor did the job quickly and efficiently, trying not to cause Sherlock anymore distress and forcing himself to not look at the colour of the water- a sickening mess of swirling red, pink and muddy brown as the water washed away.

Then he started rinsing his hair, angling Sherlock's face so the water wouldn't run into his eyes of his face. Glancing around and looking for some shampoo he saw some of the make he uses on his own hair and squeezing some out into his hand he began to massage it into Sherlock's limp, mangy hair.

When Sherlock first felt the hands he had sat up tense and afraid, but John didn't relent but just started murmuring again and Sherlock allowed him to relax into the touch as his new tentative trust built. Of course his subconscious knew that John would never hurt him, but unfortunately he couldn't quite convince himself of that fact.

There was warm water running down his head and neck- John must have finished.

"Okay, now I'm going to lift you out of the water onto the mat so I can dry you off to treat your injuries- tap again if there's anything your uncomfortable with."

While John busied himself finding more clean towels, Sherlock catalogued everything he had deduced so far about John in his absence. The slight shadowing under his eyes meant that while he had slept the 6 minimum hours he required-someone had forced it though (probably Mycroft-Lestrade wouldn't be stupid enough) - it hadn't been good. There were more grey hairs mixing in with that sunny blonde that only John ever seems to capture. There were more lines around his and across is brow,. He had lost weight too; the clothes he wore were just a little bit looser than before, and the red baggy jumper didn't quite match the blue jeans and brown shoes. Conclusion: John was worried. About him. Even through the current worry and sadness currently residing in his eyes, there was a faint hint of relief, presumably because he had been found. He wondered why. He had certainly never been a particularly nice person to John, just bringing the adrenaline to his life. That wouldn't account for the depth of emotion though. Conclusion two: John was worried because he cares about him. Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Really sorry! For lots of things! I hate authors notes in stories but I felt I owed you an apololgy, real life got in the way of writing and then I struggled with this chapter, so its really short, but I promise the next one will be longer, and there will be more regular updates! Thank you to anyone still reading it!

Sherlock was interrupted from his thoughts suddenly by a flare of light and he automatically cringed into John as Lestrade eased into the room and shut the door again. John's arms cam up and around him with a towel as he shielded his patient and friend from view.

"Erm, I'll be in the car, to take you to the hospital, and I just thought you should know that Mycroft's taking -er care of _him._"

"Thanks Greg"

"Okay, well, I'm going to go and get the team away, we can finish later, erm, Sherlock, we'll need a statement soon"

Sherlock just nodded, his face still pressing into John's shoulder, arms at his sides.

"Yeah, we'll let you know okay?" John said as the silence threatened to become uncomfortable.

Lestrade took the hint and nodding mutely left again leaving a carrier bag with some clothes in.

"You need to dry off so you can put some clothes back on before we can go to hospital." John asked as pulled slightly away, trying to give Sherlock some space.

Sherlock just nodded, still reeling mentally from his revelation that John, amazing, caring, John cared about him. John, who was so intensely good on such a basic level that it could almost made him pure. John cared about Sherlock, who was regularly insanely stupid, arrogant, selfish, noisy, dangerous, inconsiderate, Sherlock who didn't understand or care to use social etiquette, who played the violin at three in the morning. Even he had someone who cared because they could, not because they had too- Mycroft doesn't count.

He wondered why. He is all of those things, and after recent events, he thinks because even in his palace he can't bring himself to name those 'recent events', he is no longer a virgin so he can't even give that to John. All he seems to bring to anyone is misery, danger and violence.

Sherlock trusts John implicitly, but when John starts to pat him dry his muscles tense and his fists clench as his eyes squeeze shut. He stops immediately and waits for Sherlock to open his eyes.

When he does all he can see is the oddest mixture of pain, happiness, shock, fear, and wonderment.

John almost huffs a laugh at the sight of Sherlock, the apparent sociopath so wrapped up by his emotions he had failed to observe before he catches himself and reminds himself that this probably isn't appropriate. But when confusion clouds Sherlock's eyes, he can't help it. He lets out a manly little giggle. And Sherlock does too. For a minute its like things were before the kidnapping.

And then it stops altogether. They both look rather shocked at their own audacity. Sherlock looks away with his cheeks burning in shame as Moriarty's word rang through his mind '_you're not allowed to be happy. You're a worthless freak who can't even play the game properly!' ._

John, dear old John pulled the huge towel around his shoulders, to give him a modicum of privacy before morphing back into his friend and companion rather than doctor to tentatively wrap his arms around the taller man.

Sherlock just stays there, unmoving as his previous revelation and John's proximity make him feel warm for the first time since he woke up from an unnatural sleep. After a few moments John pulls away again, worried that Sherlock is trying to tell him something by remaining so still.

"Right, I think your dry enough for some clothes now Mr Holmes!" John says with a cheer that is slightly too bright, too forced, although Sherlock doubts anyone but him could hear that. He nods and then looks around for the bag Lestrade had left. John picked it up and handed it to Sherlock, who glanced at John as he recognised the purple silk shirt lying on top of his tailored trousers, with a pair of boxer briefs and some leather dress shoes tucked underneath.

"I'm going to turn around now, and let you dress yourself. Don't worry if you need help, I don't think your weak- probably never will" John said trying to cover the awkwardness between them. It was almost never awkward between them after that horrible first 'date' in Angelo's. It really always had been fine, even when Sherlock had bits of bodies in the kettle, or invaded his personal space, John did have to draw the line at being drugged though, shivering slightly as he always did when he thought of the fear and adrenaline that had coursed through him that night. He mentally shook himself thinking of the fear and desolation that must be gripping Sherlock now.

John came out of his reverie with a light touch at his elbow and Sherlock looked questioningly at him for a short moment and then down at his shoes. John silently drops to his knees and gently lifts Sherlock's foot up and slips it into the shoe, smiling in encouragement as Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder to balance himself. He ties the laces and moves to the other foot, repeating the action and then standing up.

As he does, he sees the now pink water and his heart hurts, really hurts to see the man he loves standing there so bravely after being treated so brutally, to be in so much pain. Sherlock, sensing his distraction turns to look at him with wide eyes.

Sherlock turned away, disgusted by his earlier conclusion, John couldn't care about him, nobody could. He was broken, disgusting, and used. John must feel sickened by what he saw in the once strong, once proud man.


End file.
